


Tim Drake

by writingtheworks



Series: the c in DC stands for "cringey" [4]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Multi, Reader Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-05-07 11:16:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19208275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingtheworks/pseuds/writingtheworks
Summary: Tim fics from my reader insert Tumblr days. Enjoy!





	1. It's Easy to Forget

**Author's Note:**

> Tim Drake forgets things. Like dates, his homework, and sometimes his cape. But… mostly dates.

Tim groans into his hands, sliding them up his face and rubbing his eyes. First, he gets detention. Next, he gets an earful from Bruce and then has to deal with an emergency. Then, his spare cape goes missing, the softer/sleeker one that helps him glide, meaning that he couldn’t be in the air where Gotham needed him. Finally, he ends up missing his date with you. That had to be the worst out of everything. **  
**

He hated disappointing you. The first few times… the look on your face, so forlorn and insecure. Again and again, he provided more evidence to the idea that he hated you, even though at the end of the day you were what he looked forward too most. Because after going to school (which he  _despised_ more than Damian despises him), getting legitimately punched in the face for a living, and basically living a life that killed his conscience every day, you were there. You were there with your warm embrace, your coffee, and your non-stop comfort. Everything about you was so  _comforting_.

The light of his computer is blinding, the explosions and shouts of a battle are deafening, the constant fighting and training brutally wounding. But you are a stark contrast to the harshness of his everyday reality; where the world is loud and painful to the senses, you are nothing but soft, sweet and affectionate. If Tim is a machine, then you are his power source.

The weight of all of his uncompleted projects—with increasingly nearing due dates—is abruptly pulled to the background of his conscience. Oh. So  _that’s_ where his other cape went.

The mound on Tim’s bed shifts, the fabric of his cape reflecting the dim light of his computer screen, like the fabric is made of silk. His PC plays over an episode of the _Star Wars_ animated show on Netflix’s website, casting the screen’s image of a starry sky into your eyes. Your pupils have blown wide to take in every image of the show, unaware of his presence and distracted by the scent left in his clothing. Not only are you wrapped up in his cape like a blanket, but you are also sporting one of his sweatshirts, your nose buried in both as your eyes fight to stay open. You are both tired.

Tim turns on the lamp in his room as not to assault your vision too much, but you still blink harshly when the glow falls over your temporary covering. It still amazes you how he can look so handsome while being so exhausted. You usually look like a dying animal when you’re tired. Reaching over, you strike the spacebar on his keyboard to pause the episode and smile up at him through a yawn,”Hey, pretty bird.”

Tim’s expression immediately falls into a sullen grimace. He reaches out to touch you but refrains from doing so, knowing you hate to be touched when you’re angry,”I’m so sorry, Y/N, I got detention and then there was an emergency and I—” You cut him off, shaking your head and gesturing for him to come closer. Tim sits on his bed, lips fighting over whether he should smile or not; before you speak, you rub at your eyes with his sleeves and hum under your breath, like a cat. So cute.

“It’s fine, Timbo, trust me. I’m used to it.” You shrug it off, dismissing a comment with a wave of your sweater-paw. The arms of his sweatshirt are longer than yours, meaning you ball your fists around the fabric and let them hang. Tim laughs awkwardly and in a melancholy manner,”I don’t want you to be used to it, Y/N.”

Tim runs his fingers through his hair, making you instantly regret your words. _I’m used to it,_  you repeat your own thoughts bitterly, shoulders sinking tightly,  _Dammit_. _Tim has too much on his plate already, he shouldn’t have to deal with that kind of stuff. It can wait_. You know that it’s not Tim’s fault, and if anything you’re both lucky that he’s even trying to date in such a situation. You respect it and him.

“Look, that’s not what I meant. I meant that it’s fine, because you’re saving people and your focusing on your future. That’s important.” You curl the slippery fabric of his cape around your fingers, knotting it and unknotting it around each joint. In an attempt to change the suddenly sorrowful atmosphere you tap your lips and grin,”Besides, you forgot to give me a hello kiss.”

Tim thanks your ability to prevent arguments—and your just general not want to get in arguments at all—internally, and attempts a smile that doesn’t show in his eyes but is still reaching for them.”Who says I forgot? Just saving my favorite thing for last.” Tim sits down on the bed, dipping the memory foam to fit his shape. He sighs happily with the sudden warmth of your presence. Gotham is a very cold city, especially at night.

Fluidly, you cup his face with his sleeves and pull him in and under your spell. Tim sighs happily through his nose as you kiss, melting under your touch and your taste of chocolate. You must have found his candy stash. The kiss is slow, every lock of lips contemplated and appreciated. Eventually you start to feel down and around his chest, and like every teenager on earth, you somehow get turned on by nothing and the kiss becomes heated.

You moan against his lips when Tim tugs your hips forward. He crawls deeper into the mattress’ depths and spreads your knees so they can accommodate his hips between them. Your nails pull down his back, tongue lapping at his with the vigorous spirit of youth, back arching off of his sheets in order to feel every curve of muscle and point of bone. Before it can get too far, you groan and drop your hands from his pectorals. Tim lays his brow against your collarbone and sighs, exhilarated. He keeps his hands on your thighs when he asks hopefully,”May I be forgiven for standing you up?”

“You may.” You respond, carding your fingers through the forest of his hair,”…And if I’m being honest, I’d rather cuddle inside and watch a movie instead of dinner. You know how shy I can be.” You confessed. Tim laughs, the sound bubbling from his throat in one quick burst,”Me too. I just thought… y’know, you like the cliche romantic stuff. Like dinner and a movie.”

You gently lift his head from your chest, caressing his cheek,”Yeah, as long as it doesn’t involve socializing with strangers.”

Tim practically has heart eyes when you say these words, and he looks a little awed by you. He shakes his head,”You really are my soulmate, aren’t you?”

Laughing together, you roll so he’s lying down beside you. Tim takes the edge of his cape and pulls it over the both of you. Reaching for the nearest object—a balled-up sock, Tim tosses it at the light switch and turns off the lights. Without another thought he kicks off his shoes and allows you to burrow into him, like a kitten searching for warmth. He’s happy to give it.

“Nice blanket. I didn’t know it was you who stole it.” Tim smiled, gesturing to his rather large cape. It seems so small when he has it on his back.

You flush, wrapping it tighter around you,”I miss you a lot when you’re gone.”

“I miss you too, sweetheart.” Tim relishes in the near-dreamy sigh you produce when he kisses your forehead. Here, right now, where you say goodnight and he kisses you to sleep, is the best part of his entire day. The mass of pillows on his bed is so thick that Tim is half-way sitting up when he starts to sleep, you in his lap with one hand clasping his shoulder and the other wrapped around his back. You return the affection by kissing his jaw. His muscles relax and the world is right again. All is well.


	2. Salsa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim Drake is fortunate enough to date a beautiful dancer that has recently learned that not everyone wins… well, unless you’re dating Red Robin.

“What’s wrong, Tim?” You finally blurt.

Keeping your eyes locked on his is the best way to get him to talk. You know how much he adores you and your gaze, and you also know how Tim Drake gets when something’s not quite right. You glance back at the TV. He drills holes into the screen as it replay’s tonights  _Dancing With the Stars_  episode, the one you had worked so hard to go on. The contest you and your partner had failed.

 _Did the judges not like salsa?_  You asked yourself, observing the way you and your partner sensually danced across the massive dance floor on the screen.  _Or maybe the audience just wasn’t into your dance…?_

Tim shook his head,”No. Nothing’s wrong.” He responded, turning away from you to scan the television for… something.

The distant look in his eyes, the tautness of his arms, combined with the impatient tapping of his fingers formed your conclusion; while you had previously thought Tim was mad at  _you_ , it now seemed the opposite. He kept shaking his head at himself and whispering ashamedly beneath his breath. Even if you don’t like breaching Tim’s comfort zone, you press deeper into that magnificent mind anyway. Surely if such a genius was upset about something then it would be more serious than you losing a competition.

“Tim…” You sighed softly, warningly. It was frustrating to have to prod him for his honesty every time. But patience was your best and most valuable virtue,  _especially_ when it came to all of those bailed-dates and lonely nights. You scoot closer to his side on the couch.

His line of vision never strays from the screen, even if his fingers relax and stop tapping so relentlessly. You lay your hand over his and squeeze. Tim finally looks back in your direction.

As concerned as you are with what’s going on with him, losing in front of so many people isn’t great at all. If you think about it too hard you’ll feel like crying, then you’ll burst, and then Tim will also have to deal with not only his feelings but a uselessly upset you. We all lose. We don’t always win, you knew that, but it still hurt. You could be an adult about this, right? You’re an adult now after all.

Tentatively, he questioned,”…What’s your partner’s name again? How long have you known him?”

Your shoulders slouch as you realize why he’s so frustrated. Tim never liked his emotions to reign over him during work, so having them finally have a good grip on him outside is just as irritating. It is not often that Tim Drake is jealous of any of your friends, regardless of gender or status, because he is just that confident in himself; he see’s it every time you touch him, hug him tightly when he returns alive from patrol, or kiss him passionately after you missed him.

Tim knows he’s jealous. He know’s how stupid it is to be jealous with every piece of evidence he has collected pointed in the opposite direction. He knows that your _“I love you, Tim Drake”_ s are real, bleeding with the compassion he is needing, and yet his subconscious still doesn’t believe it. He doesn’t need to feel so envious of another man just because you danced with him, especially when your aura of rejection and disappointment is so strong it is palpable.

Tim sighed at himself. He sighed at the deep frown on your face and the way your lights hit’s your eyes. You’re going to cry, and for some reason, he imagines it is his fault.”I… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be thinking about that right now.”

“Tim, you have a right to be jealous. You have a right to feel things,” You shrugged, sniffling as your dismay began to choke you and bottleneck your thoughts. You wipe a tear from your face with your knuckles,”But I just want you to know that I love you. And as much as I liked my partner, I would have much rather danced with you… even if you aren’t the best at dancing.”

You laughed. Wetly and softly. The sound and your sentiments make a smile leak through Tim’s concentration, and the feeling of empathy and stupidity swarm him. He shakes his head,”That doesn’t matter. You’re upset.” Tim waved you closer to his side of the couch. He smirks,”I’m pretty sure I can help with that.”

You giggle sadly again, crawling over to his side in order to lean against him. You fold your knees up protectively. Tim copies your position, wrapping a soothing arm around your shoulders as he pulls you deeper into his side. Your eyes flutter shut as he plants a kiss on your temple,”You know, I thought you were the most amazing dancer on the show. You looked  _beautiful_ in your dress, too.”

Your voice cracks when you try to say _“really?”_ , so the word comes out a lot quieter than you intended. Tim’s fingers begin to slide up and down your shoulder reassuringly. The sensation, combined with the tiredness crying brings and the influx of sudden dispiritedness, makes you sleepy.

“Oh, yes,” Tim sighed, more at himself than anything else. How could you, such a beautiful and delicate being, even consider dating that other man behind his back? You couldn’t, and that’s why Tim feels so idiotic now.”I could tell how hard you worked just how well and practiced everything was. You moved super gracefully.” Tim confessed honestly.

“I just… I wanted to win so badly,” you pouted, voice strained. The warmth his presence brings is indescribable in less than two words. You feel it every time he embraces you, and it so much more than just  _warmth_. It enfolded you and surrounded you, protecting while supplying the closest thing to real paradise, where no harm is dealt and nothing is negative. It doesn’t feel like love… it feels like something  _stronger_ , something better, more beautiful, and so much more than just a four-letter word. It is home. It is Tim Drake.

“And you should’ve won, in my opinion.” Tim shrugged,”But maybe this will lead to something else… something better. Failure usually means you’re just not ready to do you’re best yet.”

“You’re right.” You nodded in agreement. You nuzzled into his sweatshirt, feeling the heat of his blush singe your nose,”I know a failure led me to the love of my life.”

Tim chuckled when he realized what you were referring to; when you met him what had happened was you had forgotten to print your essay and failed to turn it on time, but your printer at home had broken. In a school-driven haze of madness, you had crashed into Tim Drake on your way to the nearest store with a printer. That assignment had nearly failed you English and  _did_ fail you that project… both of which led to Tim. Red Robin. The man that would make you the luckiest woman alive.

“I bet your English teacher saw you on TV tonight and regretted failing you for that project.” Tim joked, even if that probably wasn’t true. You snicker into his neck,”Oh, yeah, totally.”

You sat there, giggling into one another about a sentence that was barely funny at all. Tim must be more tired than you thought, as when you both manage to settle down and into silence, you find him falling asleep against you as you do the same to him.

Tim hums pleasantly when your whisper fills his ears.”I love you, Tim.” He feels a fuzzy blanket collapse around your bodies, and your body squirming in order to become more comfortable. Deliriously exhausted, Tim’s lips part as yours press against his jaw. He smiles,”I love you too, sunshine.”


	3. The Damian Whisperer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim is a procrastinator at times. And one of “those times” involves you and Damian Wayne.

“I may or may not have lied to Bruce about finishing my project for W.E. before the due date, so he told me to babysit Damian for the night— _the night which I was going to complete the W.E. project before the due date_. So I am begging, I am  _pleading_ with you Y/N I  _need_ you to watch him instead of me.”

Tim Drake was a mess when he got like this. He reacted to stress much like a person would react to a mosquito—if the mosquito was a ginormous monster that could easily get him fired, from both W.E. and Robin. He had become so desperate that not only was the teen  _begging_ , but he kneeled on the floor, his arms bound around your waist and his nose pressed into your belly.

“Pretty bird,” He stage-whispered dramatically,”Please save me from my suffering.”

With a smirk, you realized that you could milk this  _and_ have fun. Damian wasn’t a bad kid, so babysitting him wouldn’t be a problem, and you could get a favorable favor from Tim.  _Hmm, so many options…_  You thought as you examined the teen’s frantic eyes.”I don’t know, Tim…”

Tim was up in a flash, affectionately holding your hands in his own,”Please, Y/N! How about as soon as I’m done, we rent a movie and cuddle all night on the couch—I’ll ignore my phone, you’ll ignore yours. No missions. No alien invaders. Just  _us_.”

“That sounds nice,” You smiled at him. Tim exhaled thankfully, taking that as a yes,”Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!” In a flash, he had scooped you by the waist and dipped you, pressing a truly grateful kiss to your lips. Then, he was dashing about your apartment at top-speed in search of his things. You stood in the middle of his chaos, smiling and blushing pleasantly.

“And you can drive yourself there?” Tim questioned, half of his body already out your front door. You nodded.

“Oh, good, okay, yeah,” Tim said. He flashed a grin,”Well, then I’m gonna head over to W.E. See you later?”

“See you later, Tim,” You echoed kindly. Tim pulled you in for a brief goodbye kiss, and then he was off and running, shutting your front door behind him and sprinting his way down the hall of your apartment building. You could hear the elevator rising to greet him when you began to grab your things.

_

Damian ignores the sound of a motorcycle at first, but regardless, his brain still subconsciously tunes his senses to seek its location. Beside the main fountain in the front entryway, a Harley-Davidson Low Rider—Jason rode a different bike, so it must have been something else. Father told him to be expecting Drake, but Damian should have known that Tim backed out. He did know the sound of that motorcycle, however. It was one of his favorite sounds.

Without hesitation he sets aside his sketchbook and launches himself across his bedroom, tucking and rolling his body, before yanking the door open and racing down the hall. He doesn’t bother with the steps, leaping onto the banister in his socks and sliding down its length. Landing in an over-dramatic flip that Dick had taught him, Damian whirled open the front door before you had the chance to ever ring the doorbell. You finger hovered an inch above the button as you stared at him like a startled deer.

“Where is Drake?” Damian demanded as soon as you met eyes.

“Work emergency,” You said. Then, you smiled, so easily and so kindly Damian felt both threatened and comforted.”He sent me over so we could hang out.”

“You mean babysit.” Damian corrected.

“Whatever you want to call it, Dams,” You shrugged the strap of your bag higher on your shoulder, before deftly striding past him and into the foyer. He didn’t correct you on the usage of his name, holding his tongue; you were kind to him even if he was rude to you, and he should show the same respect you showed him. Mostly.

Damian looked suspiciously about the area, scanning the perimeter and key exit-points for listeners. When there was no sign of anyone (the Manor was well protected), Damian strode to your side and put his hands on his hips. You didn’t refrain from smiling at him again, but then did the odd thing by pointing at his fingers,”You’ve been sketching!”

While Damian examined the graphite on his fingers, it was then that Titus strode into the room, Ace panting and yipping on his tail. Both dogs circled around their master once, then Ace leaped from the tiles and onto you. You stumbled back but caught the hound, giggling and laughing as you smoothed down his ears and tried to avoid his kisses. Titus waited at Damian’s side for permission to approach you, but while Damian watched your exchange with his animals keenly, he changed his mind about following orders (a true Wayne) and joined Ace in his attack on you.

 _Hmm_ , Damian thought.  _That settles it. From now on, L/N is my official supervisor when others are absent_.

_

“So, how’d it go with Damian?” Tim inquired.

Needless to say, Tim kept his promise. Currently, you were folded into his side on the couch, a random show playing in the background. It cast a ghostly glow over your faces in the darkness, creating shadows of your finger drawing circles on Tim’s chest. He admired your face tiredly, and his hand consistently lingered near your face in order to brush away strands of hair. Your phones were out of reach on the coffee table. He kept smiling at you distractedly, whispering compliments and jokes in your ear.

_Before you saddled your bike, you gave Damian a soft smile.”I’m glad we got to hang out today. You’re a good kid, Damian.”_

_It was in that instant that Damian quiet literally through his arms around you, stealing your breath from your lungs and instantly requiring you to drop your bike helmet. You wrapped your arms around him and captured him against you, making sure he couldn’t escape. But you were too late, for a red-faced Damian pulled away abruptly, embarrassed. He gave an awkward, broken, rarity of a smile through his teeth and said,”…I believe the same of you, L/N.”_

“Perfect.” You smiled.


	4. Friendly Guidance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conner Kent has been trying to set you and Tim Drake up for years. He’s also pretty good at matchmaking.

You thought Jason was joking when he described the worst hangover he had ever had. Or at the very least  _exaggerating_ —this conclusion made sense, as Jason Todd came from a family of complete and utter drama queens, regardless of blood relation or not. (If he was Bruce’s blood son, then you had no doubt his dramatics would be worse. Look at Damian—the kid’s like Shakespeare’s angry, sword-swinging son). But he was certainly not exaggerating, as your brain felt like it was slowing expanding inside your skull, ready to pop like a balloon. Gross.

When you first awaken, it’s like those scenes in crime shows where the detective turns the light on the suspect when interrogating them. You recoiled instantly, burying yourself deeper into the protective darkness. It smelled good. Really, really good. When your hands moved to pull the blanket over your shoulders, but then you realized just where your hands  _were_. Shoved under fabric and pressed against the warm, rippled skin of Tim’s stomach. Your hand is shoved up his shirt. In your sleep. In  _his_ sleep.

You’re unsure if you should be thankful that you’re lying on Tim Drake. If it was anyone else it could have been worse, but the fact that it’s Tim makes everything almost as embarrassing.  _Oh god_ , is the first phrase that comes to mind when you manage to steady yourself, and your memories filter back through in broken images that don’t connect well. You were celebrating Tim’s 21st birthday by solving a Riddler case (“Dammit, Tim! I get that you have an obsession with your job, but it’s your birthday!”), before Conner Kent, Bart Allen, and Cassie Sandsmark decided it would be an amazing idea to go to a bar. Considering Tim was now of legal drinking age in Gotham, and your birthday was a few months back and you had yet to actually drink anything, this made sense. After Tim solved and took down the Riddler with your assistance, you met with the trio at the “best bar in Gotham”.

But… your memories end there. You don’t remember what you drank. You don’t remember what you said. You  _definitely_ don’t remember falling asleep on Tim’s couch or shoving your hand up his shirt and feeling on his abs, but looking at the other’s asleep around you provides some relief; Bart, being the smallest, had curled into a ball in Tim’s recliner; Cassie was cocooned in a heavy Wonder Woman blanket (which you knew for a fact belonged to Tim), buried deep in the other couch in Tim’s living room; and Conner’s bed on the floor was empty, but he had made a large print in the layers of blankets beside Tim’s coffee table. That left you and Tim, curled tight and knotted around each other, pressed together by the couch’s smaller width and length.

Okay, so at least you’re not here alone. That means good things.

You decided to go and investigate Conner’s whereabouts. As much as you wanted to stay so deep in Tim’s arms, there was no way in  _hell_ you would let anyone—including Tim—know you were in such a situation. The thought that Conner probably knew filled you with dread. The next months would be filled with light-hearted innuendos and more attempts to get you together. Emphasis on the word “ _more_ ”.

You read somewhere that the “crush stage” should last around four months. Tim had been your crush all through junior year and over that summer, since that had been when you first joined the Teen Titans. But he had also been your crush all through senior year. Then your first year of college and so on, until you got to where you are now. So maybe it isn’t a crush anymore. Maybe you’re in love with him, maybe Conner knows that because of his damned good senses, and maybe you keep denying it even if it’s the truth. Maybe.

There isn’t much relief in your denial. At first, it had been a wall to separate yourself from your feelings. But then you realized that your feelings  _were_ that wall, that you couldn’t deny feeling this way and that they were trapping you in. It is in your most private moments do you look at him and think to yourself,  _yes, I love him_. Because it’s impossible to say you don’t.

Tim is… Tim is  _everything_. He’s always been so capable of being underestimated that even you forget the brilliance he hides behind his eyes. But the mask of immaturity always crumbles and you finally see the Bruce in him, the unwavering sentinel of all things good, a transparent storm that you never acknowledged until you’re picking people from the wreckage—and sometimes, not even then. They look at Red Robin and they say,”That’s Batman’s  _kid_. And that’s all he’ll ever be—the kid.” But then they’re looking down at their broken empires and Tim is standing above them, staff in hand and twinkle in eye.  _Who’s the kid now?_ He’d say. That concealed confidence, terrifying calmness… that capability to cause so much damage and yet putting those abilities to the greater good. That’s why you love Tim Drake. The storm behind the calm.

Heroic metaphors aside, there’s always the obvious; Tim is also, like, super hot. Now that you have felt his chest for yourself, you have evidence to support that fact. You also have  _eyes_ , and anyone with eyes can look at Tim Drake and turn away blushing. He just has one of those faces.

When you venture to find your super-powered friend, Conner is nowhere in sight. He left only a note on the kitchen counter;  _Grabbing some breakfast for everybody bc Tim has NOTHING in his fridge. Be back soon - CK._

“Morning, Y/N,” Tim greets. It’s comforting to know that your reflexes are still fine regardless of how tired you are. When Tim greets you, you withhold a shriek of surprise and whirl around. Your foot nearly nails him in his solar plexus. Luckily, Tim manages to catch your foot. He shoots you an odd look, but a smile is still on his face,”You’re on edge. Everything alright?”

“Yeah. You just startled me,” You said, which was a partial truth. When he moves on to another subject, you almost breathe a relieved sigh. So he doesn’t know that you’d slept on him. Good.

“Where’s Con?” He asks, stepping around you to sit on a stool in the kitchen. You hop up on the counter beside him as silently as possible, glancing in his living room for signs of Bart or Cassie’s awakening. Easily, you pass Tim the note and tell him as he reads over it,”Went out for groceries because you have zero food. Also,” You pick up the medication he left for your hangovers and pass it to him,”he got these out.”

“Your head killing you too?” Tim whispered, taking the pills dry. After he swallows them, he closes his eyes and begins to methodically rub his temples. He laughs half-heartedly,”God, what did we  _do_ last night?”

“Here,” You whispered. Being the combat medic for your team, you knew all sorts of weird things about sickness. Especially alcohol-induced headaches. Gently, you took Tim’s hand and moved it higher on his face. Tim watched you concentrate with enamored interest.”Aim for right…  _there_. That should help.”

“Thanks,” he whispers in the silence, closing his eyes as you guide his other hand. Your fingers accidentally graze his cheek just  _too_ sweetly to be casual, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

“No problem,” You supplied, ducking your head to hide the blush on your face.

Before you could get off the counter to get yourself some water, Conner makes his presence known by dropping a couple paper bags on the counter. Then, he plants his fists on his hips and looks over the both of you with a proud smile.”Man, it hasn’t even been—what?  _Three hours_ since the whole _“I’m in love with you”_ thing and you’re already sweetly stroking each other’s faces. Geez, you two are  _so whipped_.”

“What?” You and Tim chorused. Tim cleared his throat as he’d nearly begun to choke on his own spit, and you stumbled to catch the glass you had dropped in your surprise.

Bart is up within seconds, peeking out from behind Conner,”They have no idea! They don’t remember!” He snickers in amazement.”And Wally already asked me to give you his congratulations…” He shook his head.

“Hold on,” You splay your hands and try not to panic,”What do you mean, the  _“I’m in love with you”_ thing?”

“Well,” Conner begins. Bart begins to unpack the groceries, and when he finishes in the span of a second, he eagerly plants his elbows on the counter and stares between you and Tim. Conner continues,”Somebody at the pool tables made a bet against you last night about how many drinks you could take. Tim joined in for moral support. You guys won and got fifty bucks, but by the time I was driving home you guys were completely hammered.”

Cassie claps her hands on your shoulders. When you jump, she smiles knowingly,”And then you guys started confessing your love to each other in the back seat. I barely managed to keep you off of each other. When we got you home,  _BAM_! You were out and all cuddled up to each other on the couch.”

“We did not,” Tim said too confidently.

“Yeah, you’re all bullshitting. You’ve done this before.” You lied in your agreement with Tim.

Conner brushed back the side of his jacket and dramatically pretended to retrieve an invisible card, which he waved invisibly in your face.”No, I’m calling  _bullshit_ on  _you_ calling  _bullshit_ with my  _bullshit_ card,” Conner countered. You slapped the invisible bullshit card from his hand and shook your head.

Tim stood up from the counter, face clearly reddening but still steady. He waved his hands,”Conner, C'mon man. I thought we talked about this.”

“No,  _you_ c’mon man,” Conner urged, turning to his best friend.”This is your chance! Trust me on this.”

You furrowed your brow,  _what are they talking about? “This is your chance”?_

“Look, we’ll even leave. We’re leaving. Right now,” Cassie said, pulling Bart along by the elbow. Conner mouthed something to Tim on the way out that you didn’t catch, but it made Tim frantically shake his head.

Just before they escaped the apartment, Cassie pat you on the arm and encouraged in whisper,”Time’s up, Y/N.  _Tell him_.” She seated you on the stool beside Tim. And with that, the door was shut behind them. You knew better than to assume that they weren’t going to listen in.

A heavy silence falls over Tim’s kitchen, cut through only by your pulse roaring in your ears and Tim’s fingers awkwardly drumming on his lap. You notice in that span of time just how  _cold_ his apartment is, and how much you miss the warmth you had found in him. You had… fantasized about lying with him like that, so close and so warm, so soft and so tender. For the briefest of moments, you questioned yourself on whether or not he had done the same. Or if he enjoyed that warmth too.

“Did we really—?”

“I think it’s time I—”

You both silenced as not to interrupt one another. But at your mistake, you both began to laugh; a bubbling, symphony-like sound that harmonized so well in the echoing air. Tim spun the stood so you faced one another. You reluctantly followed, knowing if you looked him to deep in the eyes that you were surely to drown.

“You first,” Tim said kindly.

Swallowing deeply, you considered what you would say. Avoid the truth? Come up with an excuse? Just  _back out?_ But somewhere within you, those options didn’t feel like  _options_. Fine. So how would you approach telling him?  _Hey Tim, I’ve been in love with you for years and our friends are forcing me to tell you_. Nope.

But Tim is a man of touch. Words don’t equal what actions do in his conscience, after years of empty promises from his parents, and silent praises from the Bat. So instead of opening with useless talk, you break the divide and extend your hand to him. He’s smart. He’ll figure it out. Right?

Tim stares down at your hand. It’s impossibly easy to accept it for him. Entwining your fingers is so easy, so simple, and yet it feels and shows a thousand confessions and promises that will be kept.

You turn your cheek,”Do you… uh, do you know what I’m… trying to say?” You winced and waited.

“Uh, yeah. I think I do.” Tim blushed, adjusting his clammy hand in yours. He surprised you by tilting so that he could catch your embarrassed eyes, and then guided them back to him with an uneasy smile,”But… y’know. Just in case, because I’m an idiot… could you say it?”

“What do you want me to say, Tim?” You asked.

“Something easy, something simple,” He said. Tim squeezes your hand. You squeezed back.”I don’t want to go too fast.”

“Okay, Tim Drake,” your heartbeat was rattling in your chest and your ears. His hand was both an easy comfort and a heart-stopping motive,”I want to be more than friends.”

“Can I tell you something now?” Tim asked. When you nodded, he leaned closer.”Me too.”


	5. Hypocrite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’re a hypocrite because you want Tim to start sleeping more, eating more, and living more. Tim is a hypocrite because he wants the same for you. You’re both utter disasters.

It’s never really been a big deal. For you, anyway. You had a talent for forgetting the bigger things, as your mind always decided to brush them aside until they were needed, and you would forget. That’s just who you were. You forgot. At first, it was things like chores you had to do, but then it progressed into your birthday, your and Tim’s anniversary. Your work was your everything, and that was the excuse every single time. So, of course, it made sense that when you became obsessed with it, you’d forget the big things.

Somewhere in your mind there was something nagging, telling you to drink water, to put something in your system other than caffeine or energy drinks. But then your work did as it always did and brushed aside those thoughts. In their place came the wave of consequences of your failure, and you  _knew_ you couldn’t back away now.

At this moment, you had managed to stay between the thoughts of repercussions and your body’s needs in favor of a breath. Just a breath, where thoughts of tomorrow came, and that’s usually when another deadline would pop into your mind and you’d be back at whatever machine you’d be working away at.

You stared at the hunk of metal that would be Tim’s next Robincycle, a mass of what looked like a paper ball all crushed together, rounded around the invisible space in which the tree Tim had crashed into once was. The remains of the tires and their attachment had come off quickly, and now the thing was elevated and shouting at you to complete it. But it was Tim’s bike. The sea of thoughts in which you sat between paused, ever so briefly, so that your thoughts could wander to your boyfriend.

Maybe you were a hypocrite. Correction: you  _are_ a hypocrite because as soon as Tim’s face breaches your mind you’re wondering if he’s eaten, if he’s working, if he’s gotten enough rest. You know for a damn fact you haven’t. You know you’re tired and that you miss your boyfriend, but you also know that you have work. The waves dive in and you’re caught between them. And then you’re drowning once more, descending into a darkness of concentration. Or, you’re about to, anyway.

“Figured you’d be down here.”

Tim enters your nook of the Batcave, and his appearance reminds you of where you are, what you’re doing. Suddenly the sounds of the waterfall in the cave return, washing down your shoulders and relaxing the muscles in your back you realize have drawn too taut. His voice, accompanied by the relaxing sounds of the cave, are too tempting.

“Always am,” you reminded yourself, working the grease off your fingers. Tossing it behind you, you walk around your workbench and smile at your boyfriend,”Why are you up right now? It’s like 4 AM.”

Tim pulled a face,”Sunshine, it’s breakfast. How long have you been down here?”

You sheepishly cast your gaze to somewhere else, shrugging,”A couple hours.”

Tim’s expression fixes into a frown. You try and avoid it by meaninglessly fiddly with your tools, beginning to line up your new wrenches as an excuse to avoid his eyes. They remind you of the ocean. But not the ocean of stress threatening to crash over you, and more like those of summer days, where the sand is hot and the water is licking at the shore. Tim’s irises are a fine teal that drown you in a better way.

“Hey,” Tim says. He rounds your workbench and picks up your wrist. When he smiles the rest of his face follows, rounding his cheeks, curving his eyes with that real happiness you don’t see on him as much as you should.

You pull your wrist from his touch and turn away from him again, excusing the wounding action by,”I have grease on my fingers. Hold on.”

“Doesn’t matter right now. N/N, look at me,” Tim pleaded. You followed this time, turning off the heavy desk light on one of your workshop shelves. The darkness swallows you immediately. In the distant light of the Batcomputer you could make out Tim’s hands, rising to clasp your shoulders and slide down your arms. He sighs, and you feel the breath tickle your skin.”This is gonna make me sound like, A: a total hypocrite, and B: a bad boyfriend, because I haven’t been paying attention to you. But babe, you need to eat and get some rest.”

You’re about to open with the classic line,” _I’ll be fine.”_ but Tim knows what that line really means, he knows that you’re going to say it, because you have both claimed that you’re fine about a million times. He squeezes your arms and it successfully stops you from continuing.

“I know it’s… really bad that I ignore my own habits. But I’m your boyfriend, so it’s my job to make sure you’re healthy and happy.” He almost adds,  _besides, you’re more important than I am,_ but refrains because he knows adding his depressed thoughts to your cache of issues isn’t a good idea. Instead, he scoops you up and begins to stride toward the elevator.

“Tim!” Your squeal is everything, and the way you scramble to wrap your arms around his neck makes his cheeks ache.

“C’mon. We’re going upstairs and you’re having breakfast, then going to bed. It’s going to throw off your entire sleep schedule, but you need it.” Tim reasoned, a bounce in his step.

You looked at him with a smile, but it had begun to fade into something mournful as you watched your unfinished project become masked in the cave’s shadows. As Tim carried his beloved off into the sunset (or sunrise, rather), Damian looked on from the opposite side of the cave. And, of course, he had to put Tim down the moment he saw his worst enemy. The boy scowled,”Can you two go and  _romance_ each other somewhere else? The Batcave is a sanctuary for father’s  _cases_  and  _work._ ”

Tim stared Damian down with a stoic expression. You rolled your eyes and laid a hand on Tim’s collarbones, about to tell him to ignore Damian, before Tim retaliated. You  _immediately_ begin to squirm and laugh. Without restraint, Tim peppered your neck and face and whatever else his lips could reach with loud, wet, open-mouthed kisses that had you trying to worm out of his embrace. Damian gagged and stormed off. Satisfied with his departure but sure Damian would return, Tim ended the parade with a lasting kiss to where you wanted him most.

Tim set you down. You kissed as lazy as lounging panthers, as tired as the day at sunset, as reluctant to pull away as one would expect. His hand fell to guide you forward by the lower back, his voice soft and his smile softer,”C’mon. Hungry?”

Your system almost gave out with the invitation. You were still warring with yourself, one side for collapsing deep into Timothy Jackson Drake and never awakening, the other dedicated to plunging you back into work for the eventual relief of a stress-free environment. But you must remember; Tim Drake is a man who stops wars. When his thumb begins to rub one of the vertebrae of your spine, you give in.”Starved.”


	6. Ms. Stark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Y/N is Tony Stark’s daughter, and hates being recognized as only that; she wants to be her own person, with her own reputation, with her own name. She feels that there’s really no one out there who doesn’t see her as Tony Stark’s kid—but for when she meets Tim Drake.

Everyone has their  _place_. Somewhere, or even someone, where relaxation flows over you like cool river water or the effects of a hot shower. For some it may be their bed, or just the warmth of their home after a hard day of work. That was the odd thing for you—your place did the complete opposite of  _relax_ you. The second you stepped foot into your lab (and sometimes even outside it—curse this advanced technology and it’s access to your phone) the AI your father created, J.A.R.V.I.S, hounded you with notifications about upcoming events and your thousands upon thousands of unfinished projects. The only reason you called your lab your  _special place_ was because it was where you retreated to.

When bad news came, you went to the lab. When your dad was out there, risking his life without even a thought, you went to the lab. When you were told to leave an Avengers meeting because there was  _top secret_ information being shared, you went to you lab. It was your safe place. In your lab, where you tried to make the world a better place in your own way. Perhaps that was the one thing you and your father shared. Also, the lab had a top-of-the-line security system that you had coded and put together yourself. It was impenetrable. Or at least, that was what you used to believe.

Batman and Robin were, virtually, Iron Man’s greatest frenemies. That meant they were  _your_ greatest frenemies, and that if they came within a 500 mile radius of you, Tony wouldn’t hesitate to shoot to kill. But everything about them was a mystery; where did they get their gear? Why did they fight this fight? What were their identities? To put it simply, you liked mysteries—or maybe you just liked Batman and Robin out of spite. Robin certainly liked you.

You had been reviewing the guest list for the upcoming charity event you and Pepper Potts had put together. It was more to raise popularity for your project than for money—you  _always_ had that covered—but almost doubted that this needed it. You were, afterall, planning to send 180 satellites into space in order to get wifi to those who didn’t have access to it, and for those who wanted it cheaper. To make things better, this isn’t your father’s design.  _You_ had made this, you had proposed it to the board, and now you just needed the publicity before it took off. This was definitely why he was here.

He enters softly, but loud enough where you know that he’s there. Your gaze hardens with a glance at the security system hologram of the room—the hologram, which usually displayed who and what was in the room upon your desk didn’t even show that he entered, nevermind that he was standing a couple feet behind you. You decided to not dignify his intrusion by turning around. Instead, you flicked the hologram and watched it fizzle,”Hey, Jarvis?”

When the A.I refrained from answering, you sighed,”Rob, I really don’t appreciate you coming in here and messing with my security system.”

“Sorry,” Robin said, sounding genuinely remorseful.

That was one thing you liked about him; he too, shared your love for technology and science. But that was all you knew about him personality wise. Besides the basic traits that all heroes seemed to have (bravery, strong morals) you didn’t really  _know_ Robin at all. You  _did_ know that he had calm features, a leanly muscled frame, and a tendency to look out for you much more than you father would appreciate.

As much as you wanted to dissociate from the name  _Stark_ , being the daughter of a superhero came with the obvious perks. You grew up around the Avengers, had been kidnapped about a bajillion times, and knew almost as many superheroes as your dad did. Being a lover of solving problems and mysteries, you tended to grow more invested in meeting and learning about heroes that kept their identities secret. It was almost a talent: you’d taken one look at Peter Parker, who your father assured was just an intern, and scoffed,”He’s  _Spider-Boy_ , Dad!”

The thing that drew you closer to Robin was his reciprocation. During the times in which your fathers reluctantly worked together or exchanged information, he was always lingering behind as you did, and you felt an odd relation to him as you were your own form of “sidekick”. Robin wasn’t your friend— _yet_ , but he was a kindred soul at the very least.

“It’s alright. Just means there’s some kinks I could work out,” you said. With a wave of your hand the hologram you were working on disappeared into your desk. You smiled at him sassily,”And you know just how much I  _love_ to repair things.”

Another great thing about Robin; he was quite handsome. Though he kept to the shadows and often bowed his head when you spoke, he had sweet, calm features. His nose was pointed, his lips seemed soft, and his eyes would surely be a beautiful honey brown or summer ocean blue.

He spoke kindly, softly, with a politeness much unlike his mentor,”How have you been?”

“Busy,” you confessed, pulling yourself up to sit atop your work table. Robin cocooned himself in his cape and lowered his head, but you could see the barest of smiles on his face; it was not a look of embarrassment, but just another attempt to protect his identity.”I haven’t seen you since the whole Thanos/Darkseid fiasco a couple months back. How are you?”

“Busy,” Robin said, turning so half of his face was concealed by the shadows in your lab.”But well. Gotham’s quiet—not like that will stick, though.The attack made the streets real quiet in the last few months, but now that they know it’s safe I’m sure something will pop up soon.”

The movement made you realize just how late it was. You’d been down here since breakfast, and had practically been sitting in the blue glow of the holograms for at least three or four hours. With a glance at your watch, you confirmed it was now 10 PM… Still pretty early, right?

“Yeah, same here. I think it just… scared everyone. I know it scared me,” you laughed awkwardly.

Ever since Darkseid and Thanos proposed a partnership and attacked Earth together in January, the world had sort of retreated into a careful silence as it rebuilt itself. The Avengers and S.H.I.E.L.D had only suffered minor casualties, but the battle had managed to not only bring together the JLA and The Avengers, but also healed the wounds of the Civil War the team had.

King T’Challa was so gracious and kind, and the whole day had been made better when you got to see Steve and his best friend Bucky again. They’d been worried sick with you caught in the middle of the battle—luckily, Robin had stepped in to defend you, but had gotten a broken arm out of it. It had healed, and yet you couldn’t help but look at his arm guiltily.

“Thank you, again,” you murmured.

Robin nodded, the blue light turning his mask navy,”Anytime.”

He shifted then, becoming more Batman than the young man you were beginning to get to know. Robin’s shoulders wound tighter and his head bowed lower, voice dropping an octave.”I know you and your father don’t particularly like Batman and I, and you have plenty of reasons not to trust us, but I have news.”

You slid off the counter and scoffed,”That’s just my dad. And what made you think that I don’t trust you? Rob, you saved me life. Of course I trust you. Now what’s wrong?”

Robin turned his head, briefly, and you got the impression you had flattered him. He began,”Batman and I have gathered from recent accounts that Scarecrow is planning an attack on Friday’s charity event. I have reason to believe it has nothing to do with your project, but moreso with your father or you. He might try and capture you for leverage or money, or may be stealing from your labs, or whatever else. We have no way of knowing what he’s planning. But I suggest that you hirer better and more security, and maybe give key guests gas masks if you can—knowing you, you’ve probably developed a mask that can take the toxin.”

“Figures,” you sighed, already trying to remember where you put the anti-fear-gas-mask prototype (AFGM would make a good acronym). And, more importantly, how you would break this to Pepper. You grabbed a wrench and gestured with it in annoyance,”If he comes  _anywhere_ between me and my project, I’m sorry to say that I’m going to have to break one of your rules.”

Robin nearly cracked another smile. Instead, he said,”If you wouldn’t mind, I would like to be there. Batman can’t—another mission—but I think it would be best that Nightwing, Batgirl and I all attend.”

“Of course. Scarecrow  _is_ one of yours,” you said dismissively.”I’ll notify my security team, maybe get an Avenger or two in if that’s alright with you.”

After a moment, you reached down and began rifling through a drawer. After submerging your hand into a mess of wires and some spare screws you found what you were looking for. Carefully, Robin allowed you to gently hold his palm, slip the device inside, and cup your fingers over it.

“This is for when you need to contact me. And please, feel free to check it for scanners and trackers and stuff—I know you vigilante types—because there isn’t any,” you confessed, dropping his hand. Robin examined the phone, an odd smile in his face, imbued there with your comment. You nearly considered putting an actual tracker inside, but surely he’d scan the device regardless and find it. His trust was hard to gain. But surely, you could figure him out another way.

“Thank you,” Robin said, and you could hear the smile in his voice,”I’ll make sure to keep this away from your dad.”

You laughed at that, admiring what you could of his face for the briefest of moments. Maybe it’s because he saved your life, or maybe it was the whole “superhero-your-age” deal, but he was almost… irresistible.

“Is this the part where I turn around and you disappear?” You wondered.

Robin chuckled, but nodded. His laughter was suddenly cut off, breath hitching tightly, and you could feel the way every muscle in his body seized with surprise. You cupped one side of his face and felt his jaw under your hand, and with a gentle twist you had turned his chin and planted a sweet kiss on his cheek.

Innocently, you turned back to your desk, pulling up the hologram you had been working on. Robin heard you begin to whistle softly into the darkness. As he retreated the whistle became a hum, and that became the quiet lyrics of a slow song that suited your voice all too well.

_Like a river flows, surely to the sea,_

_Darling so it goes,_

_Some things are meant to be._

_Take my hand, take my whole life too,_

_For I can’t help falling in love with you._

Robin felt your kiss on his cheek as he slipped out the exit, pleasant against the burn of his cheeks. He was grinning.

_

Pepper walks proudly, with a practiced precision in the click of her heels. You recognise her footing even before JARVIS informs you that it is her requesting access to your bedroom. The moment she’s inside, you already know what she’s going to say.

The door slid open, revealing Pepper Potts—the co-CEO of Stark Industries and your step-mother. But she was nothing like the traditional archetype of the evil gold-digger, nor the replacement parent. Virginia Potts, if anything, wasn’t a step mother at all. She was the closest thing you had to the real thing. Sometimes you forgot that she wasn’t your  _actual_ mother from how she behaved with you sometimes.

In the early days of Pepper’s time as Tony’s personal assistance, she had always made sure to keep an eye on you as much as she kept an eye on Tony. She’d slide a glass of water your way, reminded you tirelessly if you forgot to eat or to take your pills, and had more than once offered emotional security. When your father wasn’t there, Pepper was. And you’d be eternally grateful for that. Especially at this moment.

“Hey, darling. How are you?” Pepper asked. She slipped her sweater off her shoulders and tossed it on the back of your chair, revealing the blue evening gown she had picked out for tonight. When at first you didn’t respond, fingers lazily circling the bracelet around your wrist, you felt her hand gently graze your shoulder. Having startled you out of your daze Pepper offered a kind smile,”You okay?”

“Yeah,” you said, shaking your head. She took the usual route—making you tell her what you’d eaten today, if you were feeling sick, if your anxiety was kicking in again—even though she could take a good guess at the reason for your sudden… blearyness. You barely registered her fingers beginning to work through your hair before she’d spun your desk-chair around for access to it, a tactic for getting you to talk. It worked.

You fixed your expression and looked at the floor,”He able to make it?”

Pepper shook her head, a sad smile pulling at her lips,”He’s upstate. Avenger’s business, I believe. He did want to make sure that I gave you his  _good luck_ , though.”

“I don’t need luck,” you scoffed, which made Pepper chuckle. You ventured on, mindlessly kicking your shoes, double guessing yourself a thousand times over before you even dared to speak. Pepper had a way of getting people to open up to her, you supposed. It definitely worked on you.

“Do you ever… do you ever wish that he put you before his work sometimes?” You asked. The moment the words fell your stomach dropped with guilt; Tony Stark was saving lives, and you were just being selfish in asking for him to waste his time on you.

It’s dark outside. The event would be beginning in an hour, and if you closed your eyes and listened you could hear the clatter of cutlery and murmur of the staff from your monitor. Soon you’d be down there, and you’d have to explain your ideas to  _everyone_ and get judged by  _everyone_. Even if you had been playing the socialite game ever since you were a baby appearing mysteriously on Tony’s doorstep, that didn’t mean this was going to be any easier. Anxiety came with the territory.

Pepper spun your chair again, this time pulling you back face-to-face. She studied you for a moment. Her eyes spanned over the curve and sharpness to your features, probably finding pieces of Tony within you as everyone did. That was Pepper’s one flaw—you may be her theoretical daughter, but in her eyes you were also Tony’s.

You loved your dad. He’d bounce you on his hip and coo at you during meetings, and used to leave an hour or so at the end of his day to tend to you when you were younger. He’d shown you the wonders of science and Metallica, raising you on the great ideals of Star Wars and Star Trek, or the  _real_ definition of fashion (aka: wear whatever the hell you want). He had never wanted to be like his father, or wanted you to grow up like he did, and thus tried his best to be  _better_. He  _was_. But the name Stark is a curse, and whenever the world looks at your name they never see  _Y/N_. They see  _Y/N Stark._ And there was no way to move on from that.

Pepper’s cool hands bring you from the deep waters of your thoughts, soft against your cheeks. Her eyes were a kind shade of blue.”All the time,” she sighed,”But we have to think about what he’s doing for the world—what  _you’re_ doing for the world. You’re both changing it. That’s what I love about you and Tony—you’d give your everything to help people. The only difference between you and him is that you know when to have  _fun_ in between.”

“Like tonight, for example. Aren’t you excited?” Pepper dropped her hands and balanced her chin in her palm,”Sure—you’re going to have to socialize with some people you don’t like. But is there anyone who you  _do_ like that will be there?”

A smile conquered your face then, and with the flare of your skin, Pepper just  _knew_. She perked up,”Oh my god.”

“You can  _not_ tell dad,” you said, looking around your room and trying to remember where the emergency audio devices were. For emphasis, Pepper zipped her mouth closed and urged you to continue. Your wrung your hands in your lap and considered the odds; Pepper loved Tony and wouldn’t keep things from him, but you could easily pass it off as something other than the massive crush you actually had. With a cough, you nervously revealed,”There’s this boy. He… He goes to Cordin Prep with me, and he’s in my band class. I don’t  _like-like_ him, but there’s just something odd about him I just can’t understand, so I hung out with him to try and figure it out more. He’s coming later tonight.”

“Naammme?” Pep drew out the word, drawing out Y/N’s suffering.

With a careful breath, Y/N winced,”… Tim… Tim Drake-Wayne.”

Pepper’s hands quite literally flew to her mouth. When you rushed to deny what you had said her laughter bubbled up and into the air, like a fire hydrant exploded and the water rained down upon everyone. Bruce Wayne was both a business partner and one of your father’s main competitors. Tim was his son, but also a representative for Wayne Enterprises and on his way to becoming the CEO. He was basically the  _you_ of W.E.

“ _Elementary school_ Tim?  _Middle School_ Tim?” Pepper wheezed,”Tony will kill you if you’re planning what I think you’re planning—no, he’ll kill  _him_ , and then we’ll have to call in the lawyers! Y/N!”

“I  _know_ , I  _know_ ,” you rushed, raising your hands in surrender. You settled them down on your knees and looked at her pointedly,”But… c’mon. There’s something up with the Waynes. They’re  _always_ caught up with the police, or the government, or people we know are… sketchy.”

“Y/N, just because  _our_ family has some secrets and we’re rich, doesn’t mean that every other socialite does. The Waynes are just… idiotic playboys,” she waved her hand dismissively, and your body seized with the action. Avoiding eye contact discreetly and gesturing were two of Pepper’s major tells.”That, or they just have a reputation of being rowdy. Trust me when I say that all the mystery around them is just their need for privacy. Are you sure all of this isn’t just Tony’s crazy rumors about them stuck in your head?”

“No. You can’t confirm that it isn’t an act,” you said, mind already at a full-sprint. But Pepper probably  _could_ confirm, and it only added to the mystery behind them.

“Okay, fine, fine. Say there is some major secret behind the Waynes. Are you using this night to investigate Tim, or to… “ _investigate”_  Tim,” Pepper said, making air quotes with her fingers. You flushed at the implication, and instantly a mad grin grew on her darling face. Before you could jump up with a whole slew of excuses, she shook her head, waving her hands and laughed,”I’m just kidding.”

The thing was… maybe you were going to attempt both sides of the meaning. You sighed and though,  _wait until Dad discovers I have a crush on_ Tim Drake-Wayne _, the son of his “greatest enemy”. Next to Ryan Gosling, of course._

_

Every introvert is aware of the safehaven’s at a party; the buffet, the bathroom, etcetera. Every introvert  _also_ knows the  _worst_ places at a party, especially one of such grandiose stature. It was the center of attention, and you were nothing but. All of your business partners—from right here in New York, all the way over in Hong Kong—had shown, filling Stark Tower’s party floor with guests and the smell of designer fabrics. Looming above the party deck was a chandelier the size of a car, which cast fractals of golden light all around the main room. People milled below you and down the stairs in mindless, dizzying circles, like waves moving infinitely in the ocean. The prototype for your satellites was scaled down to a display in the middle of the room, a little plaque confirming it as your own creation.

You were greeting people.  _Greeting people_ , most of which you had either spoken to once or didn’t even recognize. Your brain had slowed to a snail’s pace, the same empty greeting stuck on your tongue like a broken record, hugging and shaking hands and clapping shoulders all barely there. If you recognized someone, you’d fill in a name or a place into the greeting. But it stayed the same virtually every time. How no one noticed was beyond you. Must everyone be so dull?

Well. Not everyone.

“If it isn’t Ms. Y/N—inventor of holographic training simulators, artificial intelligence, virtually every piece of Avengers weapons or gear, and my favorite—” Another guest greets. You don’t exactly register their face this time, but your mind attempts to save you by observing their attire and gathering what it can.

Male, 16 or 17, but easily identifiable as some sort of athlete. Possibly a boxer or a gymnast, or a combination of the two with the marks on his hands and exposed skin. The way his palm seems to bend—bend  _around_ , as in used to holding—wielding—a handle of some kind. Four years minimum.  _Bo-staff_. Class ring = graduated early. His clothing consists of a dark button up, slacks, and suit-jacket (left open) combo, completed by the red tie. It reads not only rich but  _born_ rich, so raised in a wealthy family. But something about his stance reads nervous, unsettled, so either intimidated or socially awkward. Outline of the phone in his pocket: homemade and top-of-the-line from what you could tell. With the addition of his model of watch, you can easily file this young man under  _tech whiz_.

Raised into a wealthy family, but a  _smart_ one—complete with combat training and gadgets. Hiding something big, even behind his nervousness.

 _Tim Drake_.

“Rocket powered roller skates!” You said together.

Unlike the other uncomfortable encounters of tonight, Tim’s embrace is warm and sweet. His arms come to wrap around your back in slow motion, chin briefly touching down on your shoulder, before the moment of bliss is gone and you are forced to separate.

“I’m so glad you came, Tim,” you smiled. He had not quite pulled away completely, instead lingering to keep his hands on your upper arms as yours resided on his bicep.

With your confession his face flared, dipping down once in a practiced dance.”Me too. I haven’t seen you since W.E’s gala for the Martha Wayne Foundation’s cleanup launch.”

Tim had certainly come prepared, brushing your fingers off his arm only to collect them again. You watched in slow motion as he bowed, just barely lifting your knuckles higher than your shoulder, lips brushing against the skin. Although it was definitely out of courtesy, your heart seemed to disagree and rapidly sped with the new interaction.

“You look incredible. As always,” Tim said.

Pepper shot you a devious grin with Tim’s words, and nodded down the staircase. You asked her with your eyes if she was sure, and with Pepper’s nod, you knew she would take over greeting. You were blissfully  _free_  from this wretched hell.

“Thank you. You… you too,” you smiled awkwardly.

With a quick hello and goodbye to Lucius Fox, W.E’s head of the R&D department, you had hooked arms with Tim. But instead of heading down the staircase, you turned down the hall of the gallery above the main room.

“Look, Tim, if you don’t mind… you’re literally the only person my age at this party. And there’s  _no way_ I’m spending the majority of the night out there…” You shuddered comically and spat playfully,” _…mingling._ ”

Tim laughed. It was a pleasant and kind sound that sent shocks up the arm in which you were entwined by. He nodded eagerly,”Trust me when I say I understand. But are you sure…? I really wouldn’t want to be stealing you away from your fundraising.”

“Trust  _me_ when  _I_ say that I can pay for the satellites,” you laughed.

Tim chuckled,”So where exactly are you taking me, oh wise one?”

You rushed down another hallway, bounced down a set of stairs, and flattened your hand against a scanner. Only when you entered the darkness of your lab did you fling out your hands and graciously sing,”My new, ultra-improved, totally baby-safe laboratory!”

Tim admired your lab, and you watched his expression eagerly. He swept over the Dum-E, your work table, the hologram, the hulking mass of scrap metal, the alcove containing all of your prototypes, the alcove containing all of your  _trashed_ prototypes, and your tech. It all gleamed with that freshly metallic sheen, as high tech as it got. If it were anybody else you were showing your lab too, their jaw would have dropped. But Tim Drake was Tim Drake. He was lucky, as your competitor, to be even getting a glimpse.

“I’ve seen better,” Tim jested. You elbowed him in the side, but he only laughed and wormed away. As he looked up at the ceiling, where another model for a satellite hung, Tim tossed you a teasing grin and pointed at it,”You really like space, don’t you?”

“I mean, now that we know that aliens are real, you can’t help but be curious, right?” You said, playing with the nine-by-nine Rubix cube among the piles of junk. You couldn’t help but start to close in with this new subject, as you’d grown up on all space related things, and had always wanted to go. Tony… didn’t like it. He’d been to space only twice in his life, and both times it had nearly killed him.

“Me too,” Tim grinned. It had begun to fade as he admired your lab, eyes glazing over. You recognised the expression, and had probably felt it form on your face a thousand times; he had an idea.

Tim picked up an R2-D2 action figure, gently tossing it toward you. When you enclosed it in your hands and looked it over, Tim pointed to it,”Do you have one of those arc reactors lying around? Because I’m pretty sure we could use one of those to—”

“—Power a droid, in which I could code an A.I. system,” you finished. You tossed the figure between your hands and grinned,”You bet your ass I do.”

_

Tim’s hands spread, enlarging the video feed. You watched as the vibranium was poured into the mold within the “Vibranium Oven”—appropriately coined by Princess Shuri—on the screen, two halves of the droid’s shell. The machine whizzed and whirred and occasionally squealed, sounds you were so accustomed to you could practically fall asleep to them. Tim seemed to share this trait, as he was completely absorbed in naming your creation.

“ _R2-D2_   _Two_ ,” Tim suggested, rubbing his chin with an oiled glove. Then he continued thoughtfully,” _R_ _²_ _-D²_?”

“Y/I 2-T2,” you proposed smartly,”As in Y/N-2, Tim-2. Squaring it doesn’t make sense.”

“I just thought it sounded cool, but  _that’s_ definitely the one,” Tim said. He glanced at you dizzily,”You are the woman of my dreams, you know that?”

“Sure thing, loverboy,” you rolled your eyes, and snapped the welding shield visor on his head closed. He laughed as he pulled it and his gloves off, already trying to reshape the gel in his hair back to what it once was, following you over to the screen filled with quickly written code. JARVIS was writing it for the time being per your request, but you’d go in later and finish it off and find imperfections—to avoid another robot uprising.

“No, really.  _No one_ in my life has agreed to recreating our very own R2-D2. You’re the first person,” Tim admitted.

“Well, it’s my first time making a robot with someone else too, I guess.” You pulled what Tim called an  _eyepiece_ off the table, beginning to casually jab at it with a screwdriver,”Don’t expect me to not have drafts or anything.”

“Wait, really?” Tim questioned. While the mold continued to print, Tim set himself down in front of a reference photo and looked over the beginnings of the robot’s powercore.”I would have imagined you and your dad would make them all the time together.”

“He’s not around a lot,” you excused, turning away from Tim.

There was a silence that ensnared the air for the ever briefest of moments, like a hand had emerged from the ground and snapped the conversation in two. Tim thought over how he would respond for too long of a time. Finally, he mended the silence,”Yeah. Bruce isn’t around much either. He’s got a lot of kids, though, so I can’t really blame him.”

You smiled, looking down at the little blue eye your R2 would see through,”We should start a club. Call it the  _just-us league_.”

“Well, I have my siblings and stuff. You have… Pepper? JARVIS?” Tim realized. He frowned at your back,”Y’know… if you wanted to hang out, you could have always called me. I get what it’s like.”

“That’s sweet of you, Tim. Maybe I’ll take you up on that offer,” you said, glad that you were turned away from him. Then he wouldn’t see the sadness rooted in your eyes, and you couldn’t see it in his.

“Y/N, I’m serious,” Tim said. Suddenly, he’d turned you around and you were now face-to-face. But not just  _any_ kind of face to face. Close enough where you could count each lash on his eyes, or see the subtle tones of turquoise in his irises. Gently, he pulled the eyepiece and screwdriver from your grasp and set them aside.

“I… I really understand. As the weird middle child of my family, I feel kind of…  _ignored_ sometimes. Overlooked. Sometimes I swear people only want me for my money, or my new name too. And I’m not—I don’t  _pity_ you or anything. I just know how it feels, and I want to help,” Tim said. He paused, trying to drill his message into your eyes. Before carefully, gingerly, he raised his palm to you.”You can talk to me about this stuff. We haven’t—we haven’t really talked since you went off to M.I.T sophomore year, but we’ve been in the same schools since like— _first grade_.”

“You can talk to me about this,” Tim said, waving his hand again.

You didn’t realize you were crying until you felt the tears in your mouth, ugly and salty and horrible. Tim didn’t have to move at all. You took his hand and pulled yourself into him, releasing all of the bottled up sadness and lonesome into Tim’s shirt. You wanted to speak. You wanted to thank him, you wanted to explain that you were done talking, just needed a moment to cry. And yet even if the ball in your throat forbade it, Tim could read your mind. He cradled your back and began to coo reassurances.

This position was held for an eternity. Tim was warm, and the cologne he’d put on had managed to stay throughout the labors of your workshop. He smelled of fine pine and sweet, minty things that cooled your burning face, bringing with it a sense of comfort like that of a November night under the covers. It only made you burrow deeper into him.

By the time your tears had run out, Tim had found the handkerchief in the breast pocket of his suit jacket and offered it to you. You laughed embarrassedly and expressed your gratitude with nothing but a shaky nod, and spent the good half of twenty minutes just sitting on the floor, shoulder-to-shoulder against a set of drawers full of tools. You don’t remember when Tim put an arm around you, but it was still ridiculous how comforting the gesture was.

“I’m sorry,” is the first thing you say once your burst subsides.

“Nonsense,” Tim says, shaking his head,”I get it. You just needed a good cry. I think we all need that sometimes.”

“Please don’t start crying now. I’m terrible at comforting people,” you laughed wetly. Tim laughed too, and the sound left a pleasant feeling in your belly. His arm was still around you.

You bowed your head, moreso against his shoulder than your chest. You nod,”Thank you.”

Tim nodded, the computer’s blue glow turning his eyes navy. There is a beautiful smile on his face,”Anytime.”

Everything clicks then. Your hunch is correct. And yet the only thing you can find your brilliant mind thinking about is how his eyes were not a deep almond brown, or a shade of hazel like honey in sunlight. They are blue. It is truly a beautiful color.

Tim helps you stand. But you stumble; the building shakes, rocking like it’s heaved over and is ready to topple on its knees. Tim’s hands automatically jump to your shoulders to keep you upright, narrowing in on the doorway, mind sprinting ahead while yours is still caught up in the glow of light against his face. Scarecrow was attacking.

As screams begin to echo down the hallway, Tim looked at you seriously, squeezing your arms,”Turn off the machines and the lights, lock down the lab, and get something to protect yourself with. I need to go.”

 _Now_ , your brain is going fast. They say that getting everything you ever need or want is just one crazy 20 seconds of insane courage, and then it’s all yours. Maybe it was the adrenaline. Maybe crying had made you sleepy enough to endanger your relationship. Regardless, your hand cups the back of Tim Drake’s neck and you kiss him as hard as you possibly can.

The action startles a groan from him, and you feel the sound on your lips and in every bone in your body. You know you don’t have enough time, so you pull apart and look at him expectantly.

“Go get em’, boy wonder,” you said.

Tim  _grins_. Although he does raise an eyebrow.

“What, Drake, you think I’m an idiot?” You scoffed.

His hand climbs to spread against your upper back,”Never.” He swears.

Tim’s fingers envelope your face just as quickly as the moment had enveloped you both, and he pulls you under again, slower and more meaningful than the first time. Your hand scrambles around for a business card before you shove it into his hand and gently push him towards the exit,” _Go_.” You laughed.

“I’ll see you?” He questioned.

“Of course,” you said.

Then Tim was moving, leaping up like a gazelle and dodging out of the lab fast enough to make the Flash’s head spin. Your thoughts cleared as he departed. Once you set out to initiate lock down, you groaned to yourself,”My Dad is  _so_ going to kill me.”


	7. O, Springtime Realizations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey, you try to startle yourself internally, calm down. You’re totally overthinking, dude.

“So, Mr. L/N, we’ve been seeing you a lot of you lately,” Becky Narita said, crossing her legs underneath her desk and flashing a smile at the camera.

The live studio audience behind it cheered and clapped, and you felt yourself sinking deeper into your chair as a holler made its way out of the crowd, layering your face in an iron-hot blush. You waved gently to them and the folks at home, as the feeling of being on television actually began to settle in.

When the crowd finally settled, she turned toward you and clasped her hands. “Would you mind telling those of us who live under rocks, who are you?”

After a short bout of laughter, you cleared your throat and felt yourself shifting,”Well, I’m seventeen-years-old, I clean up celebrity scandals, and recently I was involved with a lot of recent events that you might have heard about.”

“Well, before we get into your take on that, I thought it would be best for us to learn more about you. So, firstly, we’re going to play a little game…”

You tensed but laughed anyway. They had not told you about this when they discussed the interview with you…

“Are you familiar with FMK? As in, $%#@, Marry, Kill? You are? Good!” Becky said. The crowd brewed excitedly in their seats, and you knew that this wouldn’t be good. You just had to calm your breathing.

“Okay, so out of our appropriately-aged ex-Robins, who would you @&#@, marry, then kill?”

After a moment of consideration—knowing that it would be best to make a joke that someone would laugh at—you blurted, ”Pff—easy. &^%$ Red Hood, marry Nightwing, and together we‘ll kill Red Robin.”

_

“You saw my interview?” You said, trying not to pale.

There was an instinct to nervously scratch your cheek, to shrink away from him shyly, or to just up and dash for the nearest exit. You hadn’t felt like… this, in a while. Nobody, not even people like Batman or Red Hood, were capable of making you this nervous. Or maybe that wasn’t the word at all; unprofessional, more like.

Your boss, a close family friend who had passed down their business to you and taught you the trade of “scandal-sweeping”, had always defended the Waynes. This meant that he had dealt with plenty of their scandals, which would eventually lead to you being business partners with the family as well. After a long career beginning in your teens, you’d worked from covering up C-list celebrity cheaters or arguments to transitioning careers. The Kardashians may have been the big leagues then, but now your big leagues were covering for Superman or the Batfamily when they needed someone to protect their identities.

Right now, you were at work. A… “fan”, much like Tim Drake, had gotten very interested in Wayne’s families night activities as of late. It was your job to shoo them off unsuspiciously. Having already worked on a couple cases with them before, Bruce was quick to employ you when the situation gave way. You’d already faked being Damian’s tutor, disguised yourself as a business partner delivering Bruce papers every night of the week, and planned a spontaneous birthday party for Dick (he has like three) to solve the issue.

That’s why you’re supposed to be acting professional. But… how could you?

Tim Drake is many things. Your age? Check. Charming? Check. Openly bisexual? Check. Hot? Double check. And even more importantly, he could keep up with you. Not many seventeen-year-olds dropped out of school to start their own business. Not many seventeen-year-olds were involved in the superhero community. Only one seventeen-year-old was currently walking you to your car, but ending up just standing and talking in the archway of his foyer.

“Oh, you bet. B has us keep an eye on our associates all the time, but it’s not like that was the only reason I made sure to watch it,” Tim said.

Your heart did a backflip. Then another. Then it performed a gold-medal worthy Olympic performance inside your chest-cavity, and you were more than ready to throw up a 0. You needed to stop. But… then again… Was it even legal for people to be this sweet or charming? Was it even legal for you to want to ask someone out so bad?

“I mean, no offense to the others, but I was kind of hoping… you’d… y’know,” Tim prompted. He was much more capable of being less professional, bowing his head and rubbing the back of his neck. When you made no move to offer up a response, he changed the subject with a honey-like laugh, “I didn’t think you’d be so ready to answer—I didn’t know you were… into… guys, either…”

“Neither did I, until a while ago,” you confessed with a shrug. Liking Tim was just part of the story. Knowing he had struggled the same way you did? It brought forth a kin-ship and made it easier to talk about these sort of things with him. It had taken a while to talk to your friends, and even longer to tell your parents. “It’s really cool how open you are about it, though. I wish I had that kind of courage.”

“Well, when your dad dresses up like a bat at night and fights crime, you know there’s something worse than people saying, boys like girls, and only girls,” Tim said, waving his head about in an exaggerated manner like he’d heard the phrase a thousand times. He was grinning, and the simple way he sent it in your direction was enough to make you collapse.

“I don’t know how many people have told me that.” You laughed, though your voice had lost its enthusiasm due to your temporary loss of function.

Why does he have to be so handsome? You asked yourself, realizing just how eagerly you were looking him over. His hair fell around his face like modern art, styled to be messy over eyes that were blue. Blue. Intoxicatingly so—completely Prince Charming, sunny-day, ocean-wave, a sea of flowers, cloudless sky blue. The kind of blue that Crayola made crayons of. To make matters worse (better), they were chiseled into the palest and most well-structured face you’d ever seen. He looked much like a ghost, his irises translucent glass and his skin bathed moonlight.

In comparison, you felt like only one thing: an under-dressed toad. Which was saying something, as Tim was currently in Wonder Woman pajama-pants and a black sleeping shirt, while you stood across from him in some of your best business attire.

“A lot?” Tim guessed with a note of familiarity.

You sighed, hugging your folders like a schoolboy, “A lot.”

The laughter shared between you both feels sweet and real, a genuine smile replacing the ones you had crafted after years of dealing with frustrated clients. Tim looks relaxed and less stressed than you’d ever seen him before. After a breath of studying each other, Tim breaks the silence.

“You know, in all honesty, I feel I really don’t know the real you,” Tim said. He tilted his head to the side, artic eyes sweeping from the folders in your hands, to your face, to your feet, to your build. Though you shifted, Tim smiled absentmindedly, “I’ve really only talked to the businessman or any of the other facades you wear for work. This is the first time we have talked before.”

With Tim’s pleasant gaze and light, engaging smile, you felt a burst of confidence zap you on the spine. You had only a split second to debate if you were going to ask him, but your mouth was always much faster than your brain. It liked to get you in trouble.

“Well… do you like talking to me as much as I do you?” You asked, immediately wanting to stomp on your own foot.

Tim sunk into his shoulders and did the neck-rub thing again. Dizzily, he echoed to himself, “You do me…?”

Then, immediately realizing how he’d phrased things, blushed as deep as the painted wall behind him and laughed it off with the grace of a practiced socialite. (He was totally screaming inside). Maybe you were chewing out of subconscious habit, but you may have bitten your lip. Your chuckle still slipped between it, and Tim glowed with pride when you seemed to laugh more with him than at him.

“What I meant to say was, yes, I do,” Tim explained. After sending your heart into another golden routine, he inclined his head in the other direction and raised an eyebrow, approaching the subject carefully. “So… um… are you free this Saturday night?”

_

Laughter splits into the air with the sudden opening of the elevator, harmonizing in a sloppy duet that has you both collapsing against one another. You manage to pull Tim out of the elevator before it closes on you. Stifling your laughter is impossible, as it feels that every time you clamp your lips shut it slips out another seam. He is still in stitches by the time you reach your door, cackling into his collar as he pulls it higher around his face. After playfully shushing one another back and forth, you gain some clarity and pull your keys from your pocket.

Tim sighs a clearing breath, finally cleansing the laughter from his system. His smile splits his face like sunlight gleaming through the canopies of a forest. You feel a smile forming just because of the sight, and it causes an awkward pause as the laughter stops and you stare distractedly at one another’s faces.

Tim breaks the silence. “So… we’re here.”

“Yes, we are.” You confirmed.

Tim chuckled, glancing at his feet and then back up at you again. The air thickened. Your heart’s pace quickened. A dozen questions swarm you like flocks of doves. Weren’t third dates where…? Is this going to happen now? Had you brushed your teeth? Did you look nice? Was it possible that Tim was faking, and he went on three dates with you for some other reason?

Hey, you try to startle yourself internally, calm down. You’re totally overthinking, dude.

But… there Tim is again, looking at you. Really looking. It was true that you were a great actor, as acting with a good portion of your business, and it was even truer that you had a thousand personas you used on the daily. But ever since that first conversation in the foyer it felt like Tim had figured out how to look past those, how to look at you and see you. It felt like he could read your mind. Right now, you really, really hoped he couldn’t.

This was the part where you kissed. The statement seemed to hang in the air, suspended in blinking lights above your heads, a crowd of strangers chanting in your ear: kiss, kiss, kiss! The walls seemed to be closing in on you, you felt suddenly very gross and clammy and not at all kiss-able. Meanwhile, Tim was teetering on his feet in your direction, eyes still ghostly and boring into your soul.

You were looking at his lips now. They were soft and small and for some reason, you felt that they were utterly perfect, and reasoned that they would work well against your own. He noticed you looking at once, and now he knew what you’re thinking (if he didn’t somehow already), and now you were just standing there and staring at each other.

Who would make the first move?

Of course, it was you. It’s always you. If you didn’t have insane bursts of confidence that you wouldn’t have blurted out what you did on TV, and you wouldn’t have regretted it later. But you’re suddenly not regretting it right now.

So, you kiss him. It’s nice. Or at least, you think it’s nice, but you’d basically swept in for a quick one than bolted back out like a bat out of hell. Tim seemed more thankful that he didn’t have to insinuate it, but then it melted away into parted lips and reddened skin. You didn’t catch much of this either. Immediately after, you shoved the key in your door and bolted inside.

“Bye!” You squeaked, grinning like a fool, before slamming the door in his face.

The world was suddenly silent again. In the darkness of your front hall, you slipped down the length of the door and waited for a noise on the other end. Unknown to you, Tim touched his lips, chuckled again, then turned on his heel and stalked toward the elevator. You didn’t breathe until the doors closed.

You felt like a junkie after their fix. Your head was swimming, your heart was hammering, and your fingers felt numb. While sitting against your door and clutching your heart to your chest, you began to cycle through every significant (or insignificant) moment from tonight’s date. Tim snorting gracefully into his knees after he’d slipped. Your hands interlocking when you’d pulled him off the cement, and how he’d insisted it was cold and that you shouldn’t release him. When you’d managed to pull off a slightly-impressive spin on your roller skates and Tim beamed.

There were a thousand other things, narrowing down even to the graceful arch of Tim’s damn eyelashes (yes, you’d reached that point in your life). But in the storm of it all, in the delirium of just thinking about him and knowing you’d kissed him, a warmth settled deep in your stomach. It made you wonder if Tim got home safe. It made you realize that you were here, sitting on a pile of shoes and blushing in relief, clearly, obviously, spiraling into a very deep fall.

You were very, very in love with Tim Drake.

“Holy  _shit!_ ”


	8. The Accident

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For now, don’t ever worry that touch means love, Y/N. In fact, sometimes it can mean the exact opposite.

There had never been a time in your life where you felt comfortable without gloves on. Through thick or thin fabrics, through tears and risks or holes and fears, no matter if it was boiling in Gotham City or below freezing. The simple fact was that your gloves were your everything. You were hardly seen without them. This was because they protected you, or rather, protected everyone else from you.

You were wearing a pair today that was much more significant than the others. Firstly, they were given to you by your boyfriend, Tim Drake. He had never been as supportive of your “shields” as you’d hoped he’d be.  _Prisons_ , he called them,  _that keep you from trusting yourself_. You would much rather be able to hold his hand through a layer of fabric than trust yourself. That didn’t mean you weren’t  _trying_ to believe in your own control, and that certainly didn’t mean you never wanted to trust yourself at all. Another significant thing about these gloves was that they were as thin as spider-silk. You were trusting yourself today, and a small part of you hoped that Tim noticed.

 _Be @ my house soon, should be there in 15 min. Let urself in -_ Tim ❤️🖤❤️

You re-read the text as you dug through your purse for the pair of keys Tim had given you. The security system had long since been briefed about the amount of time you spent with him at Wayne Manor, and so the next step to getting past the Wayne-Tech was a set of house keys. The moment you managed to wriggle the entrance to the kitchen open, there was a pair of booming barks echoing through the expanse of the house, your only warning before two hounds came barrelling around the corner.

Though Ace was older, he was unafraid of using dirty tricks. He half-crashed into Titus to get to you first, both scuttling like cartoons against Alfred’s flawless flooring to weave in and around your legs. Two tails repeatedly and enthusiastically smacked your sides. Despite Titus’ strict obedience training, he didn’t hesitate to try and jump on you from just how much he missed you; this was something Tim had warned you of, as no one but Alfred had been around lately. As much as the butler loved his charges, you were sure that he didn’t share your love for animals.

Then again, it was possible that no one in the whole world loved animals as much as you did. In a childhood that demanded no physical affection, dogs and cats and any non-human creature were your best friends. You didn’t need your gloves around them. It was one of the many reasons you wore the  _Gotham City Animal Care Center_ badge on your chest. Your love for animals was leading you down the path to becoming an animal doctor, so much so that you’d gotten your hands on an internship the moment you became legal working age, and you’d been rolling down this path ever since.

“Hey, boys!” Your laugh was more than infectious. It sprayed into the air like water in a fire-hydrant, showering down upon the two dogs and making them yip and bark with elation.

Dropping to your knees, you tossed your gloves aside and smoothed your hands into Ace’s well-groomed fur. Considering their parents, both hounds were extremely well-taken care of, with sleek coats and perfect nails. There was no sense of fear as you pet them both, no flinching out of reach or backing away, only their snouts butting into your hands and investigating your sides.

You could forgo your gloves with people too, but you still had too much to focus on. As a child you couldn’t even brush arms with a person without the worst happening. It’s intensity had lessened over time, but you were only in your late teens and just barely able to control these capabilities. Your powers came from your touch, and so you never thought that you would be able to touch a person and get a happy result. Tim had made it his life’s mission to prove you wrong. So far, he had done pretty well.

Because your powers were particularly focussed in your arms, you had never held hands before Tim, never closed your eyes and felt the shapes of a person’s face before him, nor had you ever kissed someone… except for Tim. Every time you made contact with someone something horrible happened. It meant that every time Tim leaned over to kiss your cheek you’d flinch back to protect him, or everytime he wove your hands beneath the table you’d jerk away to make sure he was okay. It wasn’t his fault. He wanted nothing more than someone to touch but for someone to touch him, and yet he was stuck with you, a person who could give neither.

But Tim was Tim, and everytime you mentioned this he would only shoot you down.

“ _Y/N, many people have taught me that touch doesn’t always mean love, okay? You don’t have to kiss me, or hug me, or hold my hand for me to know how you feel about me_.” He’d said, extending his hands to you. “ _I know because of how you make sure I’ve eaten or had water, or how you worry about me when I’m gone. That kind of thing. Sure, sometimes it helps and it’s nice or whatever. But let’s get you out of your comfort zone slowly, and we’ll work our way toward that. For now, don’t ever worry that touch means love, Y/N. In fact, sometimes it can mean the exact opposite.”_

You paused your thoughts to look down at your fingers. Without him, you probably would have never decided to start taking off your gloves in the first place. You’d never had a boyfriend before—never thought you could have one at all—making Tim your first… well, everything. Your first embrace, something ridgid as a glacier before it melted into a warm spring; your first kiss, barely a brush of lips, but a brush that meant a world of difference; and your first time falling asleep with someone.

Ever since the night Tim set aside his computer, pulled off your gloves, and put on a movie for at least two hour’s worth of innocent touching, you felt a longing pull in your stomach at the thought of bedrest. He had been cold. When you’d first met him, you’d never thought that he would be so  _cold_. His freezing fingers combed down your back, pressing your chest against his frigid one, drawing lazy circles on your hand that was sure to leave frost behind. Then he’d been cold up to a point, because apparently  _your_ warmth could make  _him_ warm. Since when was  _that_ a thing?

“You’re like a furnace, you know that?” Tim laughed.

You’d never been happier to be a furnace.

Titus had trotted off, no doubt to find a toy to play with, and Ace stayed obedintly at your side. You didn’t know how long you were there, but Tim would be home soon and then you could dare to make the adventure around the house. Even if you were dating Tim, it didn’t mean you had any idea how to navigate his house. If Bruce still got confused with short corridors, then you were definitely going to need Tim’s help.

“L/N—?”

You jolted, and hard. Ace skittered off your lap. You had no time to register what you’d done. One minute you were petting Ace peacefully in the middle of the kitchen, and the next moment you were grabbing Damian’s wrist out of fright.

His face immediately became as colorless as ash. You pulled off his skin as if he had burned you. There was an odd noise bursting from your throat, probably an apology, but the look of surprised terror on his face suffocated you with hot tears. You tried taking in a breath. It felt like trying to coerce water out of a clogged drain, like your heart had stopped, and every single time you grazed or touched someone came back like a broken dam.

There was no time to think about you—no time to care about how you were feeling—no time to pick up your gloves—no time to stop and process things. The color in the skin dulled, then came the reddening, and then came the rush of memories and soul that didn’t belong to you. You touched people and you got a piece of them; whether it was recollections, energy, or superhuman abilities. Damian seemed to be nothing but recollections.

Talia. Talia with a sword.  _Ra’s_ , pointing a sword. Stabbing pain. Green lights. Father. Talia. Father, angry. Father, ashamed of him? Blue lights. Dick, smiling. Talia with a sword. No lights at all. Father. Jon. Jon, using his heat-vision. Jon again. Jon. Talia, pointing a sword at Jon. Tim. Jon, brimming with pride. Dick. Jason. Talia. Father. Jon.

You stumbled up and away from him, suddenly swirling with such ferocity and sadness and confliction that you could hardly understand what was going on. You were too young to understand. You needed help. Maybe you could ask Jon—no, he couldn’t know how to do this—Dick? Dick would understand… But he was in Bludhaven. Father would no doubt be disappointed you couldn’t solve this problem yourself…

No, no. That wasn’t you. That was  _Damian._ It took a moment for you to register that he was speaking to you, and it took a moment more to find yourself in the new thoughts. Your name was Y/N L/N. You can’t touch people. You need to get away.

“L/N? You need to calm down. Slow your breathing. I am fine, you don’t need to wor—”

And with that, you whirled around on your heels and tore off toward where Tim’s room was.

_

Tim knocked on the door. He looked frayed, with his hair somehow already wild and his clothing untidy from his mad-dash upstairs with Damian’s news. He was panting hard from the sudden run, but it didn’t matter. None of it mattered. He needed to help you.

Not a sound was made inside the threshold. He didn’t know what terrified him more, and so Tim tried again, “Y/N? It’s me, Tim. Damian told me what happened. He’s totally okay, so you can come out now.”

Tim’s room, which was usually alive with his incessant typing and music, was as silent as the forest at night. It wasn’t a peaceful silence. Even through the door Tim knew that even things that ran while he was gone had been turned off. The fan in his computer wasn’t humming, a silence had absorbed the mini-fridge in the corner, as if there was no air in the room for sound to travel on at all. He twisted the knob to find it unlocked.

“I’m going to come in now, okay?” Tim said. He paused, waiting for an argument. He stole a peek inside, but couldn’t find you without opening the door completely.

There was a shaky inhale. It sounded to be muffled by fabric, and Tim’s mind was already flickering through what steps he was going to take, the same that he’d taken before. His first: be gentle, be quiet, and make you feel safe.

“Jus-just stay out there!” You suddenly jolted.

Tim stopped immediately, pulling his hand from the door. You were on the other side.

Tim’s bedroom belonged inside a castle. It had a high ceiling with equally high windows, everything within reach had been framed with silver moulding and engravings, and an old fireplace crowned one of the walls. His room would have looked this way if he actually cleaned it. But while half of this mess, like the unwashed laundry and the massive computer to one side, was Tim’s doing, you had made an effort to keep everything absolutely quiet. As Tim guessed, the curtains were drawn shut tight and everything that made noise was unplugged.

“I’m sorry,” said a voice weakly.

He felt you slide down the length of his door, settling at the bottom to both keep it shut and stay close to him. Tim would have traded anything in that moment to make things right again. Though he couldn’t touch you in this state, his brain was already listing things that he could do for you later to cheer you up—clean up, maybe? Take you for a drive? Run a bath?—Even if you were the one with these abilities, Tim adapted to your sudden distress like a love-spun fish to poisoned water.

“Don’t be sorry.” Tim said. He copied you, but laid his head against the wood and listened to what you were doing.

You didn’t respond. Tim felt like he couldn’t either. Your hands were bound into your lap, locked behind your folded knees with enough force to make your fingers bleed. A similar pressure was wrapped around his heart, squeezing and squeezing until he burst. Your panic was so prominent it almost suffocated Tim, and he lost himself in it long enough for him to forget what he was doing.

“You don’t ever have to be sorry for this, Y/N. You were born with these abilities. It’s not your fault you’re having trouble with them,” Tim said.

He tested the door, and it was much like he’d pulled a knife on you. You heard you shake your head wildly and hold your hands tighter to your chest, almost slamming it on his fingers.  _Not him… Not Tim… Anyone but Tim… Stay back…_

“It  _is_ my fault,” you whispered, now making an effort to keep the door shut. Your lip was trembling, a motor churning hot tears out of your eyes with every breath he could take. “If I tried harder to control it… maybe I could touch you more… maybe people wouldn’t get hurt anymore… I could  _kill_ someone with these powers, Tim… Mayb-maybe I should just be locked away…”

“You crying, right now? That proves you would never want to hurt anyone, so you don’t deserve to be locked away. Never.” He said. Trying to get the door open wasn’t his best option. He decided that he would just talk to you, which came in silence-hung intervals when you looked down at your hands in shame. “And you’ve  _been_ trying. You  _can_ control it. This was just an accident.”

“But what if this happens again? What if it’s  _worse_ next time?” You sobbed. It was hard and cut like the sound had been hammered out of you. It might as well have been, because everytime you paused you were desperately trying to hold down your tears, like scooping water out of a sinking boat. Your boat teetered harshly when you unfurled your fists, staring down at the nail-induced crescents in your palms with the most amount of self-hatred Tim had ever heard in your tone.

“I  _hate_ these powers, Tim… I hate them more than  _anything…_ ”

He could hear the sobs chourusing with your shaking shoulders, stifled down to tearful whimpers, and there was a sharp pull in his stomach; a command to tend to you, a desperation to fix things.

“Well, I disagree,” Tim said.

He swallowed, trying to keep his voice soft, trying not to scare you away. He knew how risky this was, knew what could happen and what could happen as a result, but he couldn’t leave you alone… He couldn’t leave you at all. It was  _his_ job to help you, and even if it wasn’t, he’d sell his soul to help you.

He’d do anything to help you.

The clarity in the thought gave him no fear. It didn’t worry him. He knew, for a fact, exactly what he’d do for your happiness, and even more for your safety.

“These powers are what makes you who you are. Without them growing up, you would be completely different. You wouldn’t be Y/N. You wouldn’t be  _my_ Y/N, the one I-I—” Tim caught himself before he completed the phrase.

In his childhood it had felt hollow and unreal, but the words bounced around inside his chest with a newfound understanding and vigor. He knew familial love. He knew your kind of love, and yet he’d never had the name for it until now. When he tries again next, there’s a lilt in his voice, like a harp being strummed.

Was he going to say it? Was he really going to say it?

“You’d be a whole other person. And I’d don’t think there’s anyone else out there for me  _but_ you, so it would kind of suck if you were different,” Tim said. The smile eased into his voice. He bowed his head into his lap, finding the words coming easier, praying that you were smiling on the other side of the door too. “I love only  _this_  you, okay? As cheesy as that sounds… I would never want you to change. I only want you happy.”

There’s a pause. It’s horrible, and Tim hopes the ground just swallows him up whole because of everything he just said. Maybe you fell asleep because of how he droned on. Hopefully, you think he’s joking and laugh it off and feel better because of how stupid he sounded. Tim would much prefer that to whatever was probably coming.

“I would never want you to change either, Tim,” you breathed shakily, gathering yourself. Tim recognised the breathing exercises you were doing quietly to yourself.

“Good.” Tim said.

“Good.” You sighed, and Tim relaxed at once with the sound of your voice. You were calming down. It was going to be alright.

“Can I open the door now?” Tim asked.

Instead of voicing your answer, the door slowly creaked open. The space was just far enough for Tim to slip his hand inside. He copied your breathing, holding in and counting, exhaling and counting, just loud enough for you to hear the support. The air seemed to be prominent all of a sudden, and Tim could fill it refilling his lungs like water being poured in and out of a glass. When it filled the brim for the fifth time, Tim felt your fingers slowly curl around his own. He closed his eyes.

You didn’t yell. You didn’t sceam. There was no burning in his hand, no draining, no blurring confusion as he was pulled away from himself. It was just you and him, and that’s all he could have ever asked for.

**BONUS:**

Damian planted himself at the corner of the hall. By the time he’d gotten an ice-pack and consoled all of his startled pets, your conversation through the door had ended. It had been left ajar when Tim entere, and he stared at the light of the hallway as it pooled into the room with a nervous flicker in his eye. Your gloves were held in the hands poised behind his back.

When all had silenced, when the conversation in the room and the whispered assurances died away, Damian made his move. He swept into the room like a phantom. The silent effect was ruined by the landfill that Drake called his bedroom floor, but the can crunching beneath his foot didn’t awake the two.

At first, Damian couldn’t find where Y/N began and Tim ended. Drake acted more as Y/N’s blanket than the actual covers did, tucked under his chin, buried into his arms. Y/N had wrapped theirs around Tim’s back. Their bare hand was bunched into his shirt, so fiercely and deeply that Damian was sure the fabric would tear. But that’s not what he focussed on. The fingers of Y/N’s left hand were resting around the back of Tim’s neck, and though he despised Drake, there was an unwelcome warmth in his chest that they had adapted to each other so easily. On any other occasion Damian would have stamped it out, but tonight was the exception.

“I’m sure L/N would appreciate not freezing, Drake,” Damian muttered. He pulled the blanket they’d kicked to the end of the bed over the two. When it was properly wrapped around their shoulders, Damian allowed the gloves to spill from his hand and onto the side-table.

Then, straightening up, he locked his hands behind his back like Pennyworth and Father did, “You are lucky I’m here to pick up your slack.”

Damian turned on his heel, looked over them with his nose in the air, and shut the door behind him.


	9. Prompt 1

Tim has found that people overuse the phrase  _golden hour_. They’ve really overworked the whole dynamic, really, and as a photographer… Tim’s tired of it. He can see the aesthetic beauty of it, but Tim’s aesthetic has always been more simplistic and clear-cut, with usually not a single lens flare in sight. He just found it more appealing when the image was still capable of conveying a point without the use of color; it made it more powerful and influential. 

Or maybe Tim was just tired of getting blurry photos of Batman and Robin.

He was also totally, wholly uninterested in your attempts to rope him back into the project you were supposed to be doing together. Though that wasn’t exactly the projects fault, as much as he disliked the idea of it.

It might have also been the whole Catwoman’s side-kick reveal thing. But Tim would never allow himself to admit the fact you had been on Selina’s side all this time—a  _thief_ —and that he hadn’t seen it from the beginning.

He was supposed to be a  _detective_.

Unlike Tim, you were unashamedly focussed on your studies, easily slipping past him in your grade’s rankings and defying what many had thought would be possible; you had an amazing GPA, a social life, and (as Tim now knew) a whole other life in the vigilante/thief business to handle as well.

“Tim!” You finally yelled, exasperation leaking from every pore.

He’d been tapping his thumb against the screen of his sleeping phone, rapid and non-stop, staring off at the early morning dawn as it begun it’s growth above your heads. Tim only realized he was holding his phone like his camera when you gently wrapped your fingers around his wrist.

“I get how much you don’t like school, but we  _need_ to finish this. And you know way more about budgeting than I do,” you pleaded, voice broken. “This is really important to me. This project is a huge part of our final grade and if we don’t… Mr. Ausburn is going to fail me if this isn’t finished— _please_ , Tim, work with me here.”

Tim’s first instinct was to veer back his anger before it caught up with him, because how  _dare_ you ask for his help when you’d been lying to him all this time—he-he  _loved_ you—

But, A: Tim had been lying to you, too. The day Bruce let him tell you about his second identity as Robin was likely the day he inhaled too much Joker Gas.

And, holy shit, B: … since when did he  _love_ you?

When he didn’t respond at first, just stared down at your wrist with his eyebrows twitching everywhere, trying to ignore the touch by staring out at the sun again, you moved to sit beside him. Folded your hands with his. Made sure he was looking at you. Then spoke, concern pooling from your eyes like tears that TIm hated himself for wanting to wipe away.

Despite your desperation to finish your project, Tim’s lips simply had to tilt too far one way and the school work dropped down to the hundredth priority in your book.

“Hey,” you whispered, rubbing soothing thumbs against the bridge of his, just where his hands were most tense. “Are you alright? You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I’ll always be here for you.”

Ah. Since  _now_.

“Why?” Tim asked, and the question was blunt and sharp at the same time. Dulled and still somehow cutting, like a rock that just wouldn’t give in to corrosion.

“Because…” You shrugged, and he could feel it against his shoulders now as you embraced him, so tight that he could feel the regretful grimace you pressed into his neck. (You hated lying to him). “You’re my hero.”

Tim hugged back, bracing his arms around you like he was  _trying_ to steal your breath. “Yeah,” he said, and his eyes screwed shut, trying to look away, trying not to see the truth. “Yeah, I am.” 


	10. Prompt 2

Tim’s always freakishly cold. It’s a fact of nature. What must come up must also come down, and hey, Tim’s always a glacier of a man. Have you ever had a really cold hand shoved down your shirt? That’s every single one of Tim’s touches. He’s a relief during heatwaves and a pleasure after workouts. Having his hand on your forehead during sickness is a cure all on its own.

A warm palm snuck under Tim’s sweater, sloping with the lean curve of his back, all wrought-iron muscle clinging so tightly to his frame it’s like its welded into place. Iron because steel and Tim freeze up. It melts again, molten metal, just as soon.

“Hot much, space heater?” He remarks, and maybe it’s supposed to be snarky but it’s more flirty than anything else.

“Only for you,” you sigh against his skin and swat away his hand before he can pinch you for the cheesy phrase.

You slide up against him, buckle into hook, and nose your way into one of the chinks in his spine. The only cool item on you is the engagement ring. He doesn’t falter in noticing and takes it in his hold, ice against ice until his starts to warm. It’s a beautiful equilibrium.

“You know…” Tim begins. He turns his head to look at you, eagerly curling into the warmth with his lips only a moment to follow. There’s a kiss against the corner of your mouth and another dead-center, as practiced as anything else he does, with purpose and intention. He elbows himself on top of you and continues the kiss, sluggish and serene.

“When we get married,” he says, and there’s another strategic kiss across your chin, “you’ll have my last name. Everyone will call you Drake.”

“Uh-huh,” you agreed. Maybe there’s a more eloquent way to respond, but he’s found your bottom lip and taken capture of it with plump care. His little breaths in between are like the step of angel’s feet on clouds.

He chuckles, “I’ll be able to call you that too… Mx. Drake. Is it weird how amazing that sounds?”

You reach up and curl a lock of ink around your finger, “Only weird thing is how cute you’re being.”

A smile splits Tim’s face. “ _Shh_ ,” he insists, and starts to lean down again, “You’ll blow my cover as the tall, dark and mysterious supporting character.”

You have to bite down on your lip. “…Tall? You sure about that?”

Tim smacks you with a pillow.


End file.
